Misdirected
by idealistic.realism
Summary: AU story taking place right after this season's premier. Woody's world has been turned upside down, and he doesn't know how to begin dealing with it all, especially his animosity towards Jordan. WJ, rating for some language.
1. Misdirected

**AN: **The following is my very first attempt at a Crossing Jordan fic, though I've been a fan of the show since it started. This is just a post-ep for "There's No Place Like Home II". I just wanted to explore a little bit of what Woody may be going through. Angst is usually not my thing, but this is an angsty little piece. It's also slightly W/J if you look close enough. The rating is for some bad language, but that's it. One shot for now, but I'm considering expanding on it. Let me know what you think! Anne

**Chapter One: Misdirected**

Anger. Ire. Rage. Fury. None of those words really seemed to cover exactly what it was Woody was feeling. But he wasn't just feeling it. Somehow, it had become part of who he was. He lived it, breathed it, was the perfect embodiment of it. And it scared the hell out of him that he had no clue how it had happened. It was like every single drop of blood he had shed had been replaced by the horrible liquid fire of his anger. It burned through his veins, making his muscles clench, his brain fog, his mouth say some, well, if he admitted it, horrible things. Things he _never_ would have dreamed of saying. Things he didn't _want_ to say. But, words were almost like bullets, they couldn't be taken back after being fired.

The worst thing about it, he thought, was that the anger had nothing to do with _her._ He couldn't quite even bring himself to think of her name anymore. It was just too painful…and _that_ was angering. So it had _almost_ nothing to do with her. He couldn't do anything, _anything_, about it when she whispered in his ear. A distant part of him had wondered if she had purposely waited until he couldn't. But it wasn't angering exactly. Frustrating, yes; but he was used to frustration where she was concerned. Scary, yes; quite a bit scary. There he was, bleeding his life, and he wasn't even terrified that he might actually die, but that he would die without ever telling her he loved her. Oh, of course she knew, she _had_ to know. Everybody in Boston knew how he felt about that one particular ME. How he'd felt about her since the moment he saw her. But it frightened him that he would die without ever getting the chance to use the L word she had been so scared of up until losing him had scared her more. Then again, maybe that's why she had waited to tell him. Tell him when he's dying. A sort of twisted consolation prize. _Sorry to hear you're dying, Woody, but I'd hate for you to think you had wasted the last four years._ A muscle in his jaw twitched. His teeth ached from clenching his jaw so tight. He forced himself to relax, raising the beer can to his lips for a drink and studiously ignoring the dents he had made with his fingers from his grip.

And then, when he'd come to and found her by his bedside. So many emotions to deal with, too many for somebody who was under the influence of some heavy drugs. Oh, and how he hated that. Sure he was relieved that he was still alive. And strangely relieved and comforted to see _her_ by his side. But, he hated the drugs. Hated even more the pain he knew he'd been feeling when they wore off. Hated the weakness. Hated the fact that he couldn't feel his legs. Hated that he wasn't sure if he ever would again. And _hated, loathed_ the fact that he was supposed to be _grateful_ for it because it meant that at least he had escaped being his father. He was never going to be the same. He was never going to be the same Woodrow Wilson Hoyt he was before being shot. He knew that instinctively. And, yet, there she was, treating him as if he was the same. He couldn't stand it. The bile that rose to the back of his throat at the idea that he was no longer the same man, the man she had evidently fallen in love with. It was easy to chase her away after that. His anger was so bitter it left a worse taste in his mouth than bile ever could.

Eight weeks later, he had discovered that anger, at least, could be a very powerful motivator. He worked through his PT at a frantic pace. And it had paid off, and anger became sort of a friend to him because of it. But, he still hated deskwork. It was beneath him. And, yet, he had no choice. That's all he'd been thinking when he turned around and saw her. And, good Lord, he wasn't prepared to see her again. For all these emotions to crowd in where anger had been the only thing before. All of these emotions that were so foreign to him, and yet weren't because he had _always_ felt this way around her, except everything had changed, _he_ had changed, and it wasn't right for him to feel this way. And, _dammit_, what was she wearing! Red, and feminine, and sexy as hell. And, her legs, and her hair. And all of his stammering, and his rambling internal monologue, had shut off cold when she started to yell at him. Certainly, she'd yelled at him before. But that was the old him. She was _still _treating him like nothing had happened. But, maybe he could use that to his advantage. And it was so easy, so goddamn _easy_, to be again who she wanted him to be, who she still thought he was. To play it just a little frightened, just a little vulnerable. A perverse sort of satisfaction filled him when he knew she was going to do as he asked. It was manipulation at both its best and worst.

The crack of the metal from the empty beer can he had subconsciously crushed in his hand broke him momentarily out of his thoughts. He dropped it from numb fingers, letting it fall to the floor. His apartment was dark, quiet. No lights, no TV or stereo. He just didn't have the energy for any of that anymore. He had found out quickly that, while anger was a great motivator, and his only companion, it took a lot out of him. Took everything out of him, actually. He sighed and let his thoughts roam again. He was too tired, too exhausted all the way in his bones, to stop it anyway; even if he really did not want to relive everything that had just happened. It had been a hell of a day. Hands down the worst day of his life, next to being shot.

He was so different from what he had been. The old Woody had always preferred to measure his life by its best days, not its worst. And the old Woody never would have dreamed of manipulating the woman he loved the way he just had. To hold her arms, to be that close to her again, to look into her eyes exactly like he used to, and to _lie_ to her. No, the old Woody would have shot himself in the foot before he even considered it, and then still never would have actually _done_ it. The funny thing was, he had been shot, someplace much worse than a foot, and he had no qualms using her admission of love against her now. Not when the bastard who was responsible for everything that was so horribly _wrong_ in his life was so close.

Everything had happened so fast after he had entered the abandoned shop. He could hear himself screaming at the jerk that had done this to him. Screaming something about nameless punks and his father. He could feel the gun in his hand like a two-ton lead weight, his finger so tense over the trigger. And then he'd heard a voice. Heard _her_ voice. And he wanted it so badly. To kill this man. To pull the trigger of his gun while it was against this guy's throat and watch as his blood splattered all over the place. But, there she was, like some avenging angel, dressed in that damn red suit, and somehow, even though he wasn't the same old Woody, he shuddered inwardly at her being witness to this violence. To this new fury within him. He couldn't shoot the asshole in front of her, and she wouldn't leave. And he hated her for it. Hated her for calling in the task force. Hated it all because he really, truly believed in that moment that, if he pulled the trigger and killed the sniper himself, maybe, maybe he could get some of his old life back. Maybe he could go back to being the man she still wanted him to be, the man she loved. But, now he'd never have that chance. And it was so easy to blame it on her. To ignore that hurt in her eyes. That shock in her expression that just couldn't believe he'd played her like he had. _Oh, come on, where do you think I learned how to manipulate the ones I love? I learned it from you._ It had been on the tip of his tongue to say it. But he couldn't. So he shouted something else and stormed away, hating her with such a passion because she was right. Shooting Riggs wasn't going to solve anything. And hating her with even more passion because he still loved her more than life, and it physically hurt him to see how he had hurt her. And, he wanted to hurt her. He wanted to be glad he had manipulated her, shown her what it was like for him for the past four years. But he wasn't glad. Just miserable. And he hated her for it all, even though he didn't hate her for anything.

He got up and walked to his window, looking out at the Boston night. It really was just a horrible case of misdirected anger.


	2. Scars

**AN: **Ok, so what started out as a one-shot story is turning into more than that. I couldn't help myself. From what I can see of the previews and rumors for this season of CJ, I'm not going to be a happy W/J girl…

That said, this story is going to end up AU. I don't have ESP to figure out what the writers of CJ plan on doing, and I don't want to conform the idea in my head to fit was will happen in weeks to come. So, consider this story AU right after TNPLH II. Also, it is an angsty story. Woody was shot, and I think that's too big on an issue to just gloss over lightly. Rest assured, that there will be an eventual light at the end of the tunnel. Thank you to my wonderful three reviewers: you guys are the reason I decided to continue with this! To everybody, please, read and review! Anne

**Chapter two: Scars**

They burned him. He had two of them. One where it had entered his body. It was a gross thing to look at really. The skin around the bullet hole was pink and puckered, still healing his doctors had told him. The second was even worse. An incision running down the lower half of his back, redder than the front one and still swollen. It was awkward to monitor that one by himself, and, when he had first come home from the hospital, he'd been in too much pain to maneuver himself into the position required to check it's progress in the mirror. He'd ended up with a rather nasty infection because of it. So bad it had almost landed him back in the hospital except by his sheer bloody mindedness. But it was healing well now. He took his medicine, and just gritted his teeth when he had to twist around and examine it in the mirror. It hardly even hurt anymore; he just had to be careful when sitting down, especially in a hard-backed chair.

But both scars still burned him. Whenever he was in public, even walking down the street amongst the nameless faces that made up the residents of Boston, he felt them. Felt them glow and pulsate in his mind with the white-hot certainty that everybody could see them. That people could see right through is dress shirt and his under shirt and tell he was damaged goods. He detested it. His body had always been a matter of pride to him in his adult years. The "fat kid from Wisconsin" story he'd told _her_ about had been true. And he'd worked long and hard to turn that image around. Despite what _she_ might have said, he knew he had a physical effect on her…and a big one. He knew he was attractive, although, as anyone could vouch, he'd never been conceited about it. But, he'd sweated hard for the level of self-confidence he had. And now, it had been taken from him. One of the many things that had. But, this was physical, _visual_ proof that he had been altered. He was spoiled goods.

He just couldn't understand it. How could anyone _want_ to see his scars? To see the jagged hole on his abdomen and the neat red line that sliced his back? When the first office at the precinct had asked, Woody thought he was joking. He cracked a small smile which hovered for a minute, then fell when he realized the man was serious.

"You're joking," he'd said finally, his voice plainly disbelieving.

"No, man, let's see this big bad scar," the uniformed officer had replied.

Woody just couldn't think after that, and had mindlessly lifted the front corner of his shirt barely high enough to expose the entrance wound.

The officer whistled appreciatively, "That's a beauty of a scar." And he'd waked away.

_Beauty?_ The detective's mind just couldn't comprehend how that word could even remotely relate to what was on his body. And his disbelief had increased exponentially every time someone else would ask. And they had all admired it. Not just looked, but _admired_ the scar. He wouldn't show anyone his back, especially since it had been infected at the time. Though, he wonders if they would have admired that one too, with the line of swollen red tissue that wept green puss and blood. Would they have called _that_ one beautiful too?

He'd been put back on limited field duty after the debacle with Riggs. He'd been surprised, _shocked_ really wouldn't have been too strong a word, when his captain had pulled him into his office and reinstated him.

"Hoyt, about this business with Riggs," the older man had started, gesturing for Woody to take a seat across his desk.

Woody had swallowed hard to force down the bile that involuntarily rose in his throat at the mention of that name, his fists curled discreetly hidden from view as the rage swam in his vision. He cleared his mind forcefully.

"Yes, sir?" he'd aimed for an innocent tone which he thought he'd achieved.

"The Boston PD does not accept their own detectives going rogue to solve a case. Had you been anyone else, Hoyt, I can promise you there'd be more than a slap on the wrist," the captain said, pointing a finger in Woody's direction for emphasis.

It was funny, Woody thought. He always assumed that if he ever got fired, he'd be upset. But, now, he was numb, just waiting calmly for the axe to fall so he could pack up his desk and go back to his apartment and, if he was lucky, never have to come out again. A part of him sincerely looked forward to that.

"However," the captain continued, breaking the detective from his thoughts, "there were special circumstances. No one can really fault a man, any man, for wanting to hunt down the one who did him wrong, especially if that man is a cop out after a cop killer. And, the fact remains, that you did have Dr. Cavanaugh call in the task force."

Woody's mind snapped to absolute attention at that.

"What did she - " he tried to ask.

The captain smiled, hoping to calm down what he had always thought to be his most promising detective, "We had to have her fill out a report, son. She told us about the green paint evidence you and the morgue team had uncovered and she said that you had left immediately to make sure the bastard wouldn't suddenly pack up and leave, but that you had instructed her to call the task force for back up. Smart move on your part, Hoyt."

He paused when he noticed Woody's dumbfounded expression. "That _is_ what happened, isn't it, Detective?"

Woody nodded mutely.

The captain smiled again, "Good. Then, I'm happy to report that you will be reassigned to field duty again. Now, this will be on a limited basis until your doctors say you're at a hundred and ten percent, Hoyt, but, welcome back."

The older man had leaned over his desk with an extended hand which Woody shook silently before leaving the office for his own. And the whole office had applauded him when word spread. But, there was no further ceremony as he went on his first case.

He thought it would be different somehow at the morgue. In a place full of doctors, he thought that maybe they wouldn't all feel the need to watch him like everyone else did. And, surely, they would never ask to see his scars. So, he was just as unprepared as the time he got the first request when Sidney had come up to him in the hall, joining him as he walked towards Macy's office, clapped him on the shoulder (an interesting trick for someone as short as Sidney), and asked to see the scar. He'd stopped walking so abruptly that the young doctor had walked a few steps ahead before stopping. But, he'd shown Sidney anyway, and ended up attracting quite a crowd in the hallway until a sharp whistle cut through the indistinct murmuring. His scars were burning, his cheeks were burning, his ears were burning. He felt claustrophobic for the first time in his life as a few hands from the crowd darted out to hover over the scar, just short of touching it. He wondered what he'd do if someone did touch it, but he didn't think he wanted to find out. It wouldn't be pretty.

That shrill whistle had been like a bucket of ice water. Everybody, including him, turned towards the sound. There she was, leaning against the doorframe of her office, arms folded over her chest and a sarcastic, devil-may-care look plastered on her face. No sexy red dress suits this time. She wore a v-neck shirt and tight jeans. Typical attire for her, and yet, she looked different somehow. Or maybe his perception of her had altered. He couldn't be sure.

"Alright, leave Detective Hoyt alone. Unless you _want_ Dr. Macy to come back from the field and find you all manhandling a BPD detective in one of our main public hallways?"

A few general grumbles in her direction, but everybody dispersed until it was just him standing across the hall staring at her. She couldn't meet his gaze for long, and, he didn't know why, but that bothered him. Then it angered him. He strode purposefully toward her, crowding her into her office and shutting the door.

The wheels were picking up speed in his mind, spurring his anger on, focusing it until it rested on _her_, on _Jordan_. She was clearly at a loss. She lacked her normal confident air, and there actually seemed to be a slight pink blush to the apples of her cheeks.

"They're just happy you're ok, Woody," she ventured finally.

He stopped pacing and spun sharply to face her.

"Shut up, Jordan," he hissed, and she recoiled from the heat of his anger. "I don't need you to baby-sit me. I don't need you to cover for me. To save my damn job," he spoke through clenched teeth to keep from yelling. He couldn't remember ever being this angry and not knowing the reason why.

"Woody, I - "

"You _lied_, Jordan. You told them that I had you call in the task force. You _know_ I didn't want them there; you know I didn't want _you_ there! I don't need you to save my job or to save me from myself, damn you!"

Ok, that last bit had been a bit louder than he intended, he thought when she actually cringed.

But, in typical Jordan style, she came roaring right back at him, "God, Woody. I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't! Your captain, your _boss_, Woody, came in here asking questions about what happened with Ri - what happened in the auto store. What the hell was I suppose to do, huh? Tell the truth and get you fired, or bend it a little and try to make it better! I _thought_ I was _helping_ you! That's the only reason I lied!"

But her eyes were too glassy to match the anger of her tone of voice.

"Jordan, " he began in a calm voice, "I'm only going to say this one time, one more _goddamn_ time, _I don't need your help_," his voice was so acid that she shrunk away from him.

He couldn't stand it anymore, the vehemence vibrating through his entire being. He stormed out of her office, slamming the door so hard it bounced back open. He was almost back in his office before he realized she was the only one that had never asked to see his scars.


	3. Readjusted

**AN: Sorry for the delay, and the short chapter, but real life has intervened once again in my grand plans… Aside from life in general, writing this story is actually getting to be harder because I've got the ideas to two more CJ stories that just won't leave me alone (both are being outlined currently). Anyway, this is really the final chapter of setting the story up, everything else is going to be plot, I promise. Also, this story is now officially AU. Lu and JD do not exist in my little world. And not just because I don't want to acknowledge their existence on the show, but I started this _before_ any of that stuff.**

**Disclaimer: _I do not own any part of Crossing Jordan, I'm just messing with them for a bit. Tim Kring can have them back if he promises to play nice with Woody and Jordan. If not, I may just keep them…_**

**Chapter three: Readjusted**

Jordan sat alone in her office, too shocked to do anything. There were no tears. She had cried enough tears to fill the Grand Canyon several times over and she doubted she had any left in her to spill. There was just this terrible emptiness in her. Like Woody had reached in and grabbed a hold of something she had no name for and ripped it out of her. Then stomped on it…repeatedly. Then left.

God, she was a fool. How did that old song go? You don't know what you've got till it's gone. Wasn't that the truth? It had taken almost losing the one thing that had been constant in her life to make her realize how much she needed it. Needed him. _Don't go. Please don't leave me, I need you, Woody. I love you._ Truer words had never been spoken. Of course, her timing sucked. Why did it have to be when he was being wheeled into surgery, dying in front of her, that she decided to end their little game? Only, it wasn't really a little game. And, to him, it had stopped being a game altogether. It had stopped being a game for her too. She couldn't play around with his heart when she figured out how much she meant to him. Despite what he may think, she wasn't that cruel.

She was scared, though. Petrified that she'd never get her life back. And she wanted it back with a desperation that was new to her. Usually, she was desperate to run away. Now, she was desperate to cling to her past. To that moment in time, long before Woody had been shot. To the time when he had wanted to hold her tighter and all the possibilities of the world had seemed to open before her. At the time, it had terrified her. And she had backpedaled away from all of those possibilities, each and every one of them, so fast she almost fell on her ass. But she had never pulled too far away from him. In all the times she'd run in the past four years, she couldn't bring herself to run too far out of his reach. She just couldn't bring herself to abandon him completely, and she never quite understood why.

In the past couple of months, though, she'd had plenty of time to think. Time to think about every aspect of her life as she knew it. And she'd been shocked to discover how much of her life was intertwined with the wonder-boy from Wisconsin. And then she'd been surprised at her own reaction. _Of course_ their lives were twisted around each other. He'd been twisting the threads that way almost from day one. And it hadn't taken her too long to discover that she was only half-heartedly trying to undo it. Not a very convincing performance at all.

In the beginning, he'd been cute. Cute in the way an adorably naïve child would be. Only that child was a man, with crystal blue eyes, a disarming smile, and full of a mid-Western charm that was so fresh and new to her. She felt the spark between them immediately, and could tell he'd felt the same thing too. She wasn't good at having male friends whom she was attracted to, so it surprised her to find herself calling him not only her friend, but her best friend. But she couldn't avoid it, and didn't even want to. He was always there. He was there to encourage her, and to reign her in, to be her rock in the storm, her pillar of strength when everything and everyone else seemed to be spiraling out of her control. He was there to make her laugh, and to hold her when she cried, or when she just needed a shoulder, or an ear to listen. He was there to defend her, and even though she'd swear to anyone she disliked his Neanderthal-ish efforts to protect her from the evils of the world, she secretly thrilled to it. And he knew it, all of it. He was probably the only person who could say they knew the real Jordan Cavanaugh. He knew her and he still loved her.

It had taken her a long time to come to terms with that little fact. Woody had never really kept his feelings for her a secret. And she just couldn't understand him. She didn't even love herself, so how could he possibly love her? But he did. And she'd come to rely on it. It was a comfort to know that, no matter what happened in her life, with her dad, with Garret, with her friends, even with a fight between the two of them, he still loved her. He still put her before himself. And she had started to return the favor, even if only in the confines of her own consciousness.

When he had chased her out of the hospital room that night, she'd almost been prepared. She knew her timing was terrible, but she also knew she needed to tell him what he meant to her…just in case. When the doctors had told her that Woody was going to live, she'd been so relieved she'd almost collapsed, her knees were weak and her vision swam before her eyes before the realization of her confession slammed into her. And she knew, with a creeping sense of dread, that it had been the wrong time. Too much had happened lately; she'd been running from the possibility of a future she'd be happy with…again. And she didn't even know _why _anymore. Now that she'd actually broken through her own walls, she figured out that admitting what he already knew she felt wasn't so bad. It was actually a _wonderful _feeling. Until she realized that it had been totally inappropriate. So, she'd been hurt, but not defeated when he told her to get out of his room. And, she hadn't really been defeated the next morning, either. Downtrodden, certainly. But, the hopelessness didn't come until later.

It came eight weeks later when her heart jumped in her throat as his picture appeared on the screen in connection to a bloody finger print on a burnt body. It came when she'd looked into his eyes and saw that something was off, but didn't know what, and didn't _care _because he was _touching _her again, and _talking _to her and not yelling at her. The hopelessness came when she figured out what he'd done and where he was. It set into her very soul when he'd screamed at her that not everything was about her. She had officially given up.

Her pillar of strength had cracks. And she didn't have the mortar to repair them. She didn't know if anybody did, even Woody himself. And she was so scared for him, and scared for herself, and just incurably _sad_ about the whole thing that she couldn't smile anymore. But she didn't think she could cry anymore either. The only thing left to do was to readjust her life. To stop leaning on Woody, and to learn to stand on her own again. She just wasn't sure if she really remembered how.


End file.
